Page 75 of And Then There Was the One
I am falling in love with you.
He couldn’t be.
“You can’t be in love with me,” she said definitively, placing her hands on her hips.
“I do think I have the right to make that decision for myself,” he shot back, looking more frustrated by the moment, and if the situation hadn’t been so serious, Georgie would have found herself badly tempted to laugh. Naturally they couldn’t even manage a declaration of love without quarreling.
“I—you—this is absurd!” She threw her hands in the air. “You live in London!”
“You could move to London.”
“No, I couldn’t.” She laughed incredulously. “Have you not listened to anything I’ve told you since you arrived? I’m needed here.”
“No.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve made yourself needed here. You’re frightened to admit that you want something more than life in Buncombe-upon-Woolly, and telling yourself that you can’t possibly leave because no one could survive without you is the easiest way to avoid facing the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” she shot back.
“That you want to move to London—that you want to see more of the world—that you have dreams that lie beyond this village, but you’re too frightened to reach for them.”
“You know nothing about my life,” she said sharply, his words prickling at her skin like nettles. “You think that you can waltz into the countryside and that we’ll all immediately take your word as the most important, simply because you live in London and work for a famous detective—you think that you can charm me, and that I’ll suddenly fall in love with you and listen to whatever you say, believe that you are right—”
“I promise you,” he said evenly, color in his cheeks to match her own, “I rarely think I am right. I’ve been reminded plenty of times that the opposite is usually true.” There was no hint of hurt or wounded pride in his voice, and yet Georgie felt a pang in her chest at the words all the same. “And, to be clear, I think you are the cleverest woman I’ve ever met, and it’s a privilege to be in your company, to watch you think, to watch how you work. You are brilliant, Georgie,” he said, more fervent now, reaching out to take one of her hands in his once again. “And I want you to see it. To realize that you deserve your own dreams.”
“I have dreams,” she said, more quietly now. Admitting this aloud made her feel small, vulnerable, soft in a way that she tried to protect herself from ever feeling. A week ago, she would have laughed in the face of anyone who suggested that Sebastian Fletcher-Ford, of all people, could make her feel this way. But much had changed in the past week, somehow without her fully realizing it.
“I know you do,” he agreed. “But you’ve convinced yourself that they’re not as important as ensuring that everyone else in your life is well cared for.”
“What would you know of it?” she snapped.
Rather than recoiling at her tone, he smiled. “You’re trying to drive me away, and it won’t work,” he said. His hand was still holding hers. “You told me not three minutes ago that you saw through me. Well, I see through you, too, Georgiana Radcliffe.”
“No, you don’t,” she said stupidly, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, when it felt as though his words had pierced her to her very core. She turned, fumbling a bit with her bicycle, and flung one leg over the seat. “And, for the last time, I told you I don’t need any help getting home.”
And with that, and a quick, somewhat clumsy kick of the pedals, she was off, cycling down the high street, leaving him alone in the warm glow of light that spilled from the doorway of the Shorn Sheep. She allowed herself one last glance at him, standing there looking golden and a bit rumpled and frustrated and so handsome that, truly, it ought to be illegal, and then she wrenched her gaze forward again.
Leaving him behind her, where he belonged.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next morning, Georgie slept late. This was unlike her—she was an early riser, despite how often she stayed up late; it was a joke in the family that she needed less sleep than the average person. But this morning, she was in bed until half nine—hours later than usual—and did not, in fact, awaken until she became dimly aware of a pounding at her bedroom door.
“What?” she called, not bothering to attempt to sound anything other than peevish, and a moment later Abigail poked her head through the door.
“Are you dead?” her sister asked bluntly. “Dying? Ill? Having some sort of personal crisis?” Her expression turned canny. “I expect it’s the latter.”
“Go away.”
From her spot on the floor, Egg whined fretfully, and Georgie cast her an apologetic look. Wonderful. Now she was even worrying thedog.
Abigail rolled her eyes. “I need to be off. I’m taking Papa to purchase a new hat—he got sunburned on his head yesterday when we were on a walk—and then I’m going to the Scrumptious Scone to help Mrs. Chester for a few hours.”
Georgie blinked at her sister—wide awake and fully dressed before ten in the morning—and wondered, in a wild moment, where the sister she’d spent her entire life with had gone. When had Abigail grown up and how had Georgie failed to notice?
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Abigail’s smile turned a bit smug. “It’s rather enjoyable, seeing you at a loss for words, you know. By the way,” she added, as she turned to leave, “Sebastian’s downstairs waiting for you. He’s been lurking around the breakfast room ever since he came downstairs, more than an hour ago. He seems rather… agitated.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “He’srefusing to eat.”
And then, after imparting that astonishing bit of information, she was gone.
Georgie was downstairs five minutes later, Egg at her heels; she’d pulled on her pair of gardening dungarees, thinking that she might work in the garden for much of the day—and thinking, too, that she wanted to look as shabby and horrible as possible, if Sebastian thought that they were going to have some sort of romantic farewell before he caught his train.Men!
